


well, shake it up, baby, now

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4545009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FitzSimmons are working hard to prepare for finals, and Fitz thinks they could use a break. Jemma, naturally, is less than readily inclined to agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	well, shake it up, baby, now

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, many thanks 2 my sis Juliana (owlvsdove) for beta-ing with such colorful commentary!!
> 
> This is supposed to be a sort-of Ferris Bueller's Day Off scenario for academy!Fitzsimmons. It'll make more sense as you go along, hopefully.

“Jem. Jemma. Hey, Jemma.”

When she's unable to simply ignore him any longer, Jemma releases a heavy sigh, grip tightening around the pale yellow highlighter in her fingers. It’s the third time in as many minutes Fitz’s tried to get her attention— and, while Jemma Simmons doesn’t consider herself a fractious woman by any means, she does have her limits.

When she doesn’t reply, he tries tapping at the edge of her textbook, bouncing their crowded café table and causing her to clench her jaw in irritation.

“ _What,_ Fitz?” she finally snaps, without looking up from her notes. “What could _possibly_ be so important that you won’t let me have a moment’s quiet to look over my notes? Two days before finals, no less!"

When he doesn’t answer, she looks up, raising her brows.

"What?"

He nods to her right. “Elbow’s too close to your mug. Didn’t want it to fall off the table, that’s all.”

She freezes, following his eyes. He’s right. She’s one nervous twitch away from having tea all over her books and the price of a porcelain mug on her hands. Gingerly, she reaches over, moving it out of harm’s way.

She looks back up to see him already watching her. Deflating slightly, she says, “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” He shrugs.

She gives him a small distracted smile, then looks back to her books.

Then,  
“Additionally, I was just going to say—” Fitz starts. She bites the _inside_ of her cheek to keep from prematurely jumping down his throat. He clears his throat. “All I was going to say, was, I think, at some point, we deserve a break. You know, from studying.”

She looks up again, a stray lock of hair falling into her face.

“A what?”

“A rest day,” he says, leaning back in his chair until it's on the back two legs, “A break. We’ve been busting our arses for days, and I think we need a break.”

She lets out a long, slow breath.

“You know we can’t do that,” she says, rubbing at her eyes. “Finals begin in two days, and neither of us are nearly as prepared for Neurobiology as we should be. And, we have class later." She reaches over and yanks his arm, bringing the chair back onto all four legs. "Don't sit like that, you'll fall."

He huffs, but keeps his feet flat on the floor. “If you were any more prepared for that exam, you’d have written the textbook, Jem. You've been stressed for weeks.” He taps his fingers on the edge of her notebook again. “Also, if I have to sit here in this stuffy little closet of a shop any longer, I’m going to fall asleep. And then I really won’t be ready.”

She tries to refocus on the page in front of her, but she just ends up reading the same line three times over with an aching head. A quiet afternoon does sound nice, if she’s honest with herself. Would a few hours really hurt?

“Well, well—” She falters, reluctant to agree, but unable to come up with a proper argument.

A little smile starts at the corner of his mouth. He’s wearing her down. And really, it’s for her own good, ultimately, as well as his.

“Come on, Jem,” he wheedles. “I’ll buy you an ice cream. Strawberry. One scoop. Your favorite.”

“I know my own favorite type of ice cream, Fitz,” she grumbles. She closes her book anyway. “Fine.”

He jumps up from the table. “Really? That was far easier than I figured it'd be. Thought I might have to physically drag you away."

“I doubt you could manage that,” she mumbles.

His enthusiasm isn’t charming. It’s _not._ But she can’t keep the tiny smile that springs unbidden to her face, so she ducks her head to hide it.

“If I fail, it’s your fault,” is all she says, gathering her various color-coded, neatly-copied notes.

She reaches for her heavy bag, but he straps it over his own shoulder before she can get to it.

“You’re not going to fail.” He grins. “Promise.”  
—

“I can’t believe you’re eating that,” Jemma says. 

True to his word, half an hour later and they’re sitting on the brick wall by their favorite rickety ice cream stand, trying to keep their ice cream from dripping down their fingers. The food in question, naturally, is his own flavor of choice.

“What, pistachio and birthday cake?” He studies his own cone for a moment, before taking a giant bite. “It’s delicious.”

She makes a face. “It’s gross.”

“Try it,” he says, offering it to her.

“Absolutely not,” she says, leaning away from the offending flavors, into the shade of one of the overhanging trees. She takes another lick of her ice cream cone. "I happen to value my life as well as my taste buds, thanks very much."

He pulls back.

“Oh, all right, Miss Two-PhDs,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were above such things. Tell me, how do you eat your ice cream with your nose so high in the air?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not above it—”

“Then try it.”

“No."

"Try it."

"With all due respect, I'd sooner eat a clump of dirt."

This is not an uncommon scene. In fact, it’s rarer for them to make it through any meal without him badgering her to try his newest, appalling concoction. That she can remember, there’s only been one time in their history that’s he’s come up with something actually palatable. And she refuses to discuss it, because giving him that kind of victory goes against everything she stands for. 

“Oh, come on,” he says, poking her in the side. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

“I won’t even dignify that with a response.”

She stares at it for a moment, then casts a sideways look at him.

“Just _try_ it,” he says, exasperated.

She purses her lips. Tentatively, she takes his cone, handing hers to him. After a moment of deliberation, she touches the tip of her tongue to what she can only describe as _the pistachio part._

He watches her eagerly. “Pretty good, right?”

She pulls back, shaking her head rapidly.

“Abysmal,” she says, with a small cough. “Terrible. Sorry, Fitz, but I was right. Most definitely. Wow. I know I ask this frequently, but do you even _have_ a sense of taste?”

“Okay,” he says, reaching out for it. “All right. Give it back, then, if you’re just going to disrespect it.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand with a noncommittal noise. Unwilling to argue a moot point, she takes a large lick from her own cone to rid her mouth of the taste.

"Art is dead," he mumbles, under his breath, then goes quiet.

They fall into contented silence. Under the warm noon sun, the ice cream melts faster than they can stop it, dripping onto their fingers and shoes and every few moments the breeze picks up Jemma’s hair, blowing it into their faces. They pass a few minutes this way, finishing off their cones.

Eventually, she hops off the low wall to throw her cone away. He’s been done with his for significantly longer, and cocks his head to watch her return.

“Well, this has been _quite_ enjoyable,” Jemma says, briskly dusting off her hands. “Thank you for the ice cream, Fitz. You were right. I probably needed that.” 

He simply nods.

Then, hopefully, she says, “So, back to the study room?”

He raises his brows, with a little scoff. “Absolutely not. Simmons, I see the way you keep looking at your watch. You need a full afternoon, maybe more.”

She frowns. “Just a little more time, and we can go back out, I promise—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“Jemma,” he says, leaning down to look her in the eye. “Do you trust me?”

She worries the edge of her lip between her teeth. “Yes, I suppose so. Occasionally. Every now and then.”

“Good,” he says. “Do you trust that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our final scores?

She nods, reluctantly.

He smiles. “Then come on. Lots to do, lots to see.”

—

“A train?” Jemma asks, when their cab pulls up to the station. She fidgets nervously on the worn leather seat. “Just how far are we going, Fitz?”

“You’ll see,” he says, unreadable, and extends a hand to help her out.

—

“It’s breathtaking.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken in several minutes. She’s been practically speechless until now, staring in wonder up at the display. All thoughts of study clearly out of her mind, at least for the present moment.

They’re in the East Asia exhibit of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, staring up at a handful of smooth, painted wooden panels. Or, rather, Jemma’s staring at the panels, and Fitz is staring at her.

Just to make sure she’s enjoying herself, of course. He watches her in profile with satisfaction, the line of wonder in her parted mouth at the strong lines, the precious wood panels.

It’d been a bit of a gamble, coming out so far for something he’s not sure she’d even have been interested in, but clearly this had been a good idea. She’d mentioned some months back a particular Japanese exhibit she’d wanted to see, but he hadn’t been sure she’d remember mentioning it.

But the way her face keeps lighting up, standing there in the middle of the marble floor, means she had. Means that the stale, crowded, nervous train ride in had been more than worth it.

“It’s _beautiful,_ ” she breathes.

His mouth quirks up.

“I mean it,” she says. “I’ve wanted to see these since I was a girl, Fitz, but I've never had the time. The Kano school was the longest lived and most influential school of painting in Japanese history. The range of styles, themes...” She trails off. "It's incredible."

“I like that one,” he says, gesturing to a screen painted with a giant, twisting tree.

“The Old Plum,” she says, face lighting up. “The delicacy of the brushstrokes is incredible. The deep blacks of the foreground subjects, the cube-like crispness of the rocks, the perfect reds of the flowers…” She sighs. “Really, it’s remarkable. And the other panels, this is the first time they’ve been reunited since—”

“—since they were separated and sold in the sixties,” he finishes. 

She looks up surprise.

“Yeah, I took Art History, too,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I prefer Motonobu to Sansetsu, though.”

She smiles. “Sixth form?”

“High school.”

“Me too,” she says. “How did I not know this about you?”

He shrugs. “Never came up.”

She beams. “Well, in that case. After this, can I talk you into seeing Matisse, third floor?”

”Only if we get to see the Bishop Jades first,” he says, with a little smile. He turns, heading for the stairs at the end of the hall.

“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” she murmurs, to his retreating back.  
—  
They’re still perusing the halls a little while later, shoulders just barely touching, when the first music wafts up to the large glass windows on the negligible breeze. 

“Do you hear that?” Jemma asks, furrowing her brow. She tilts her head, attempting to locate the source of the faint rhythm that hums just under the noise of the people around them. “Is that your phone?”

“Hmm?” Fitz tears his eyes from a large informational panel. “What did you say?”

“Don’t you hear that?” she asks. "That bass?"

His brow crinkles. “I don’t hear anything.”

Without answering, she crosses to the nearest outdoor-facing window.

Suddenly, she gasps, pressing her face to the glass. “Fitz, look!” She beckons him over. “Look, a parade!”

He joins her at the window. Sure enough, he gets there just in time to see a large float pass by, scraping trees of Central Park. Balloons, masses squeezing themselves onto the concrete paths. The music thumps an inviting heartbeat against the glass separating them from the outside.

He lets out a delighted breath in a whoosh of air. Then turning to her,

“What are we waiting for?” he asks, a bright grin lighting his face. He seizes her arm. “Come on!”

She doesn’t have the breath to remind him not to run in the galleries. Mostly because she is running too, just trying to keep up with long strides. He doesn’t look it, but he’s very fast— when properly motivated, of course.

One of the security guards shouts something after them, slow down, but they ignore him, bursting through the huge doors and down the steps. 

Immediately, they’re met with not only oppressive summer heat, but a pressing, chattering crowd just as eager as themselves.

“Stay close!” Jemma shouts over the din, fighting a solid wave of humanity just to stand still and speak to him.

“What?” Fitz shouts back, pointing at his ear. “S’too loud!”

She shakes her head at him, fisting her hand in his sweater. He gives her a quizzical look.

“So we don’t get separated,” she mouthes. He nods.

They maneuver for a while through the masses after the meandering floats, stopping to here and there to shield their eyes from the sun, stopping when the crowds become too thick, and, once, to buy soft pretzels from a street vendor. 

In almost no time, Fitz’s cheeks begin to pinken in the sun, and she laughs at him, and he flushes, and she laughs some more, and he points out that she herself is hardly sun-kissed, thanks very much.

Truthfully, they’ve been out for at least an hour when it occurs to them that they're not quite sure what this parade is _for,_ actually. There’s a significant amount of lacy, flowered skirts and matching vests. Jemma thinks she hears _Danke Schön._ But it’s loud and it makes their chests thump and their cheeks flush, and it serves to keep school at bay, and there’s such a spirit of camaraderie in this crowd, they’re not too pressed about it either way.

“Dare you to get up there on that float,” Jemma nudges, at one point, taking a momentary break from tearing bits off her pretzel for the pigeons. Her hair's come out of her ponytail loose and soft around he face, and she hasn't mentioned class in some time, which is how he knows it's working.

Still, Fitz turns to look at her, surprised.

“Have you been drinking?” he asks. Mostly joking, but he leans in, anyway, pretending to smell for alcohol. “That’s the worst idea you’ve had in a long time. Possibly ever."

“No!” she exclaims, and laughs again, pulling him along. She brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, and he can’t help but smile back.

—

They’re in the middle of a conversation, walking just on the edge of the packed sidewalk, when Fitz stops in his tracks. Jemma keeps walking for a moment, then turns back once she realizes he’s stopped. She repeats her question. Then, seeing his expression,

“Fitz, what’s wrong?”

He’s staring at something beyond her, eyes bulging slightly.

"Is that Vaughn?" he hisses.

She freezes. "What? Where?"

While, technically, students were completely allowed to be off-campus during finals week, it wasn't necessarily encouraged. It was no secret that that kind of misbehavior could be —and often, was— reflected in exam grades.

"Where?" she asks again, and he shushes her. 

"Right. There," he grits out. Ever so slowly, he inclines his head to the left. She turns incrementally, no sudden movements, now, no drawing attention to themselves.

The man in question is less than ten yards from them, sitting on a park bench with his nose in the paper.

She gasps. "Fitz, if he turns his head, he's going to see us."

But Fitz is already in motion, grabbing her arm and dragging her around the side of the nearest sheltering oak tree, blocking her from view with his body.

“What’s he doing here?” Jemma breathes.

“No idea.”

"Is he coming this way?" she asks, breath whispering his neck.

He steels himself, then peeks back around.

"Nope,” he says, after a long moment. “I don’t think he saw us."

Slumping back against the tree, she dissolves into nervous giggles. 

He gives her a questioning look.

"I thought we were dead for sure, Fitz! Had he seen us, he would’ve failed us, for—” She drops her voice low, affecting the dry professor’s tone, “Flagrant irresponsibility—"

“—and inappropriate use of study time,” he finishes, mocking.

"Well, I still don't regret skipping his class, you know,” she says, wrinkling her nose. She keeps her voice down, though, as though the sound might somehow carry. “Never liked the way he spoke to me, anyway.”

He grins at her. “Jemma Simmons, you’re turning into a right delinquent, you are.”

She bites her lip. “You think so?”

“Oh, I know so,” he says, seriously. “I’ve created a monster.”

She pulls a face at him. “I’ve skipped class before you, Fitz.” Then, “I’ve skipped class with you before!”

He opens his mouth to retort, but then Jemma’s eyes go wide.

“Shit, he’s coming our way!”

—

Eventually, making their way away from Vaughn, they stumble into a little open space on the lawn, further back from the floats but still close enough to hear the music.

Somewhere, somebody’s boombox thumps out the first few beats of of “Twist and Shout,” and Jemma sighs.

“Oh, I love this song,” she says, wistfully. “My mum loves the Beatles. She practically raised me on _Abbey Road._ ”

Fitz smiles down at her, squinting in the bright sunlight. "Yeah, I know."

He eyes her for a moment. When he reaches out and snags her hand, she clutches it without thinking.

It’s not really dancing, what they’re doing it’s the farthest boundary of dancing, it’s a parody— she jumps up on her tip-toes and he spins her around, away and around and then back in, like a satellite in elliptical orbit. 

Or, he tries to, but her hair catches him in the face and he doubles over; for a few moments, they don’t think of approaching finals or leaving a place they’ve named home for the past year. Instead, they simply laugh, laugh until their sides twinge and they have to slump to the grass. 

—

Their particular patch of park is nearly empty, so they indulge themselves, spreading loose, lazy limbs out across the sun-dried grass. Jemma, back up against a large oak tree; Fitz, reclined beside her.

From the corner of her eye she can see him start to spiral into that slow-blink, drifting into a doze in the sun. She speaks anyway.

“I still can’t believe you remembered I mentioned wanting to see the Kano School,” she says, absently, paging through the newest issue of _Nature Biochemistry._ “I must’ve mentioned it _maybe_ once, what, six or seven months ago?”

Feeling suddenly a little shy, a little on-the-spot, Fitz lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. He fixes his eyes at the trees on the fringe of the park, not quite brave enough to look her in the eye. “I don’t know,” he says, “I just remember things.”

She smiles. “I’ll say.”

He clears his throat. “So, you, er— you liked it, then? You’re glad we came?” Just to be sure. Sometimes, Fitz can practically read what she’s thinking; other times, his own thoughts cloud his judgement and he needs her to tell him.

She leans over to get a better look at his face.

“It was superb,” she says, sincerely. “Really Fitz— thank you.”

He nods. “Anytime.”

He blinks again, feeling warm and sluggish, and she bites the inside of her cheek. The words come out anyway.

“If we hurry back from the station, we might be able to squeeze in a few more minutes of study before bed,” she muses, leaning her head back against the rough bark. She’s mostly kidding, but there’s a little edge there, too, a little nerves. The day’s beginning to fade, and, though she’s trying to keep her worries at bay, they’re beginning to seep back in, bit by bit.

“Don’t say things like that, Jem,” Fitz mumbles tucking his head back down onto his arm. “I’m trying to nap just now.”

"I'm just trying to be responsible," she says, with a sigh. Then, lighter, "One of us has to be."

"I take offense at that," he murmurs, soundly completely contented. “Just another hour. Then we can go. Okay?”

"Okay, Fitz," she says, a little too quietly, a little out of place in such a bright day, and if he weren't so drowsy just then he might think to ask her why. 

—

"It's so hot," he mumbles, later, as they swing their bare feet in the campus fountain under the dimming afternoon sun. He rubs at the patches of splotchy pink on his cheeks, knowing he’ll have a hell of a sunburn the next time he looks in a mirror. “East Coast America is unbelievable. What a swamp.”

"Here's a thought,," Jemma says, sliding her foot on the cool underwater tiles, “if we, at some point, I don’t know, went inside, it wouldn’t be so hot.”

"Bloody hell, Jem, give it a rest." Pause. Then, under his breath for the third time in as many minutes, "It's never this bloody hot in Scotland."

Jemma rolls her eyes, having just about reached her daily limit for hearing Fitz complain about the heat while wearing a button-down. It’s been an enjoyable day, it really has, but now the day is darkening into evening, and at this point they’re hot and sticky and tired and hungry and more than ready to be back in air-conditioned comfort.

Which is why, instead of dignifying his comment with agreement, she reaches a hand into the cool water and flicks it at him, making him blink. 

“Hey!”

“Better?” she asks, primly.

 

For a moment he eyes her, unreadable. Then, before she can react, he shoves his own hand in the fountain, spraying her with cold water. 

Retaliatory, she kicks up some water his way, a little more than before, splashing the rolled-up legs of his pants.

He scoops another handful of water up at her, this time thoroughly soaking the front of her shirt.

“No, Fitz, don’t!” she gasps. “I’m in white!”

“Too late,” he crows.

His next wave catches her right in the face, and she coughs, wiping at her eyes. As soon as she can see properly again, she shoves his shoulder, hard.

“You _arse!_ ” she splutters.

He pushes her back, and she gasps. She shoves him again. A little too hard, this time— there's a moment where he sort of wavers, on the edge of the fountain and the edge of falling, and then he actually falls in.

It's not very deep, but he still comes up gasping and soaked. She claps her hands over her mouth.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that. Fitz, I’m sorry!”

He wipes at his eyes.

“S’all right. Just help me out, will you?”

She extends a hand to haul him out. He grasps her hand, seeming to accept her help— but then he yanks her arm, hard.

It’s cold. She comes up to the sound of him laughing at her, a little disoriented and completely betrayed.

“I can’t believe you,” she says, smacking at his shoulder. “That was an accident!”

He reaches up with light fingers, presumably to push a wet strand of hair from her eyes. But she catches his wrist, not quite ready bygones be bygones, and they struggle for a moment, neither one strong enough to overpower the other, perfectly in balance.

Until one of them slips on the wet fountain tile, and she ends up half on-top of him, hands on his chest.

"Oh!" she says.

Up close, his eyes are startlingly bright. Usually, his nondescript clothes do much to dull them down, but, in the light, like this, they practically glow. Really, they’re the perfect blue to go with his boyish features and ruddy cheeks. She couldn’t have picked a better color herself. Ruddy. Is he blushing? Vaguely, she catalogues the buzzing in her own body, the one that says _danger, danger,_ like when she stands on a fourth-story balcony or has one too many Jell-O shots. _He’s charming,_ she thinks, a little dizzily.

The pool is cold, but somehow he’s still soft and warm. One hand has come up to her waist, steadying her.

She blinks. His mouth is invitingly pink, slightly parted in surprise. If she were to lean down, just a little—

“You okay?” he asks.

She blinks again, and it’s just her best friend, blinking up at her in the bright sunlight, confused and a little concerned.

“Oh!” she exclaims, realizing she’s practically straddling. She scrambles off of him. “So sorry,” she gets out, “I was just— I was distracted, I was thinking— I—”

She shifts aside, and he stands up, facing her. For a moment they just stand there, strange and close and staring at each other in their sopping wet clothes, chests heaving like they’ve been running.

“Jemma, what’s the matter?” he asks, slowly. She opens and closes her mouth like a stuck fish. 

“I didn’t mean to stress you out,” he says. “I just thought you deserved— a good day. You've been working your arse off for weeks, and I can tell it's driving you mad. So I thought— I just thought." He scratches at the back of his neck, awkwardly. “But we can go back—”

“What if it’s not the same?” she interrupts, all in a rush. The words come out almost absent of any real cognition; the first time she hears them is when she says them.

He squints at her, confused. “Come again?”

Her arms hang tightly at her sides, and she shivers when the breeze picks up her wet hair. 

“Oh, Fitz,” she says, gesturing helplessly, “What if it’s not the same? What if we get out there, in the real world, and it eats us alive?”

As soon as she says it, her chest feels simultaneously looser, releasing a great, nagging weight, and tighter, waiting for him to find something to reply.

“Hey, whoa,” he says. “Slow down." Then, as the realization reaches him, "You're not really worried about exams, are you?" A statement phrased as a question.

“It’s just—” She twists her hands, seeking her way to the ultimate root of her distress, a thought she’s been tip-toeing around for weeks. “We’ve had it so good here. What if they split us up? What if we can’t work together, at Sci-Ops? I don’t want to work without you.”

Despite himself, he can’t help but give her a little smile, at that. 

He pushes dripping hair from his eyes. “We’re going to be fine, Jem,” he says. “You know that.”

“But how can you be sure?” she asks, twisting her hands together. “You can’t guarantee they won’t split us up.”

He shrugs. “It’s going to be you and me, right? What’s the worst that could happen? All else fails, we go back and teach at the Academy.”

She tilts her head. Generally, he prides herself on considering all proper angles of solution, but the thought that they could simply leave if they were unhappy hadn’t occurred to her.

Before she can reply

“Hey, you two,” someone calls, across the courtyard. They both jump, take a few steps away from one another. “Get out of the fountain!”

It’s a security guard. 

“Shite,” Fitz mutters, but neither moves just yet, both stuck in place. The security guard starts walking faster.

 _“Shite,”_ Fitz says, again. “Go, go!”

She shrieks, and the sharp, high sound is enough to overcome their inertia. They clamber out of the fountain —her first, him behind— over the low cement edge and take off, dripping water all over the hot stones.

They hear the guard call out after them again, hear his heavy feet come after them, but they’re smaller and faster and they don’t stop running until they reach Fitz’s dorm. Luckily, his roommate is still at the library. Fitz doesn’t have the energy for the running commentary.

"We've spent quite a lot of time today running from various authority figures today," Jemma pants, once she regains some semblance of breath. Leaning one hand against the wall for support.

"That's— practically what senior year's for, Simmons," he says, breathing equally hard. “Didn’t you know?”

She rolls her eyes, but can’t help the little reflexive smile that comes to her face. “We’re not even seniors.”

“That’s a technicality,” he says. Then, growing serious, “Er, but, I mean it, though, Jem,” he says, staring at a point over her shoulder, then down a few inches, to her eyes. “We’re going to be fine. We are. You know that, right?”

“Okay,” she says, throat dry. She crosses her arms over her chest, another little shiver crossing her body thanks to the whirring fan. 

He’s about to offer her a towel, when she says, in normal tones,  
"Oh, no. Oh, no, Fitz."

"What?" he asks, breathless, leaning back against the door.

She presses a hand to her mouth. “I left my bag by the fountain.”

He blinks at her.

“You know, the one with my wallet,” she says, “ID, _flashcards_...”

“Firstly,” he says, holding up a finger, “I find it disturbing that, in a list of items of objectively varying importance, you put the most emphasis on _flashcards—_ " 

She huffs at him. “I need them!”

He raises his eyebrows, shifts back to crack the door open for her. He waves her in the direction of the door. “By all means. See you when you get back. Try to avoid both security and Vaughn, if that’s even possible for you.”

She rolls her eyes. Then, “You first,” she says, with a sudden grin, and pushes him first out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so, I want you all to know I wrote this entire dumb 5k fic just because I wanted to write the fountain scene at the end but I felt it needed more build-up and for purposes of EMOTIONAL WEIGHT it couldn't simply be a drabble, so HERE WE ARE. Amazing. I can't believe I survived.
> 
> Also, if anybody's interested in the Kano Exhibit, you can find it [here](http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/kano/hd_kano.htm#slideshow4)! It actually was in the Met in 2004, because I like Art History and doing research.
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥


End file.
